


Would That I Could Do It Over Again...Again

by Crossover_Critter



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Coping Mechanisms, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, Jason Todd is Red Hood, More than cannon-typical darkness, Panic/Anxiety Attack, Roy Harper is Arsenal, Spoilers for Joker: Last Laugh, Spoilers for Nightwing 118-119 (2006), Suicide, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossover_Critter/pseuds/Crossover_Critter
Summary: "I did it," Dick says.  "And you weren't worth it."
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Roy Harper, Roy Harper & Jason Todd, Roy Harper & Koriand'r, Roy Harper & Koriand'r & Jason Todd
Comments: 92
Kudos: 279





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Damages](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847761) by [sohii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohii/pseuds/sohii). 



> The other day I read Anonymous's "Damages," and about an hour later this happened. You should totally read the original story, which can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847761. It's excellent, and without it, this probably won't make too much sense. This story diverges from the original in the section: On the Offensive (6 months later)

"I did it, you know."

Whatever "it" is, Jason doesn't care. The only thing he wants right now is to get as far away from the darling Golden Boy of Gotham as possible, preferably leaving a trail of blood and bodies in his wake. Cursing fate, he pulls again at the ropes and finds them no more forgiving than last the twenty times he's done the same thing.

"I killed Joker."

Jason freezes, his breath catching sharply in his lungs. That wasn't.... He didn't.... Dick couldn't.... His brain can't seem to finish a thought, because there's no way Dick....

"I killed him." Dick's voice is distant as he slips into the memory, his cadence almost lyrical, as if reciting a fairy tale about a world in which a little boy died and came back to life to find himself wanted and loved and avenged. "I beat him to death, like he killed you. I was happy about it."

There's a moment where Jason feels numb – where his anger suddenly evaporates and the weight of his pain and his anguish is suddenly gone – and his body doesn't know how to feel or react because it's been so long that it doesn't remember who he is if not for _that_.

"I regret it."

And just like that the "once upon a time" of possibilities has vanished, replaced by icy cold reality.

"B brought him back -- saved his life. I didn't think so back then, but now I know he saved mine, too."

"Fuck you," Jason somehow manages to _wheeze,_ his chest tight as it all comes crashing back down and the green begins to creep in around the edges of his vision. "Fuck you." His voice breaks and once more he strains at his bonds, but this time they're not made of rope, they're made of wood, and if it wasn't for the encroaching green everything would be pitch black, because there's no light in a buried coffin -- the dead don't need to see.

"I did it for you. It was about _you_. He said your name and I couldn't stop myself. He killed you – killed my little brother – and he said your name as if you didn't matter, and he put you in the ground and he _laughed_ about it! But you did _matter,_ and god help me, but I was weak and I broke and I fell and I killed him!" Dick's voice trembles, wavers like it also means to break, but somehow it holds. "And I regret it."

It stays strong as Jason cracks. As the air in his lungs is replaced by dirt -- while his fingers shred and bleed from a million tiny splinters, and the acrid, metallic tang of his own blood invades his senses as he desperately ties to claw his way out of the suffocating darkness.

"Because you aren't worth it."

It's like a dagger to Jason's heart – a moment of loss so total that he chokes on the emptiness, mouth open in a gasping, silent sob fueled by the green of his rage and the blackness of his death that clings to him no matter how hard he tries to wash it or promise it or bargain it away.

"We gave you every opportunity to come back to us – told you repeatedly that you were welcome and we wanted you – and every time you threw it back in our faces. You stole my identity and my costume and committed murder in _my_ name," Dick _hisses,_ "and now I know that B made the right decision, because you aren't worth it – you aren't worth my soul."

Dick might say more, but Jason can only hear the green, the pit, whispering cloyingly, tauntingly into his ear, its acid tide a litany of his faults and fuck-ups and the endless reasons why he's nothing but _wrong_.

Something snaps – both the rope and within Jason – and he's not even aware of being free until the pavement tears at his hands as he trips and falls on Gotham's refuse, and the car barreling down the street almost hits him and sends him spinning away into the gutter, and his head lands hard against the dirty, peeling linoleum in his shitty safe house as the green finally overwhelms him.

*

Days Later

"Jay?" Roy pounds on the door, the flimsy wood stressing dangerously under this fist. Three raps, and he again calls out, "Jaaaaason!" He knows he doesn't have to use the actual entrance, but he's not here as Arsenal. That doesn't mean he'll be deterred. "Alright, Jaybird, I'm coming in!" he calls, allowing the Roybot he's cradling in his hand to crawl off his palm and into the lock. With a _whine_ and a _click_ the bolt retracts and the door slowly swings inwards of its own accord.

Rolling his eyes at the sorry excuse for security, Roy steps into the short hall linking the sad excuse for a foyer with the even sadder excuse for a den. "Jaaaaaaybird, I know you're here. At least, I know your phone is here, and it hasn't left in a while, so I'm assuming you're here, too, so why don't you come out...."

He trails off as he enters the den and sees the hand hanging limply over the side of the ratty sofa shoved against the corner. "Jeez, Jason, can't you hear me yelling? Must have been one hell of a night on patrol for you to sleep like the...."

Rounding the furniture, the rest of the sentence dies on Roy's tongue.

"Jason?" His voice quivers as he draws nearer to the unmoving, blanket-obscured form. The next few steps are blurred by tears as he spots the gun on the floor under the outstretched limb. "Jay?"

There's no answer.

Roy's legs give out, and he goes to his knees as the sight of the lifeless body and the smell of the blood overwhelm him. Jason's head is haloed in it – a dirty, sick mockery of the peace and absolution he never stopped seeking. "Oh, Jaybird," he moans, bringing a shaking hand to his face. "What did you do, Jaybird? What did you do?!"

Roy repeats the question over and over again as reality crushes his chest and numbs his ability to feel anything other than pain. _He's_ the fuck-up. _He's_ the weak one. Jason.... _Is gone._ Another sob hits him, and Roy buries his face in the cushions and grabs uselessly for his friend's hand. "Why, Jaybird?" he breathes.

Across the room, on the coffee table, is the only answer he'll ever get – a piece of paper warped by dried tears and blank save for the myriad, random depressions of a pen tip and several shaky lines that go nowhere and seemingly mean nothing and yet tried to say everything.

_I'm sorry._

_I know it was my fault._

_I wanted someone to care._

_I didn't want another kid to die._

_You shouldn't fall for me._

_I know I'm not worth it._ ~~~~

_I would fall for you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everyone who kudos-ed and commented on what was supposed to be just a short one-shot. Y'all keep me writing; I hope you like this.

He eventually calls Kori.

After it's clear from sitting, staring at Jason – at the _body_ – that it isn't a joke. That his best friend isn't going to come busting into the apartment or out of the closet or up from his damn corpse and say something Jason-like, like "the fuck you looking at, Harper?" and drag Roy out for a drug bust and dinner on the rooftops.

After his mind numbly settles on the reality that yes, the blood is real, and yes, the hole in Jason's temple is real, and no, those luminous blue-green eyes are never going to open again.

Before the siren song of his despair-induced addiction can whisper too loudly into his ear, the emptiness yearning to be filled by booze or heroin or cocaine or whatever the hell else is close at hand and goes down easy without too much thought or burn.

Not that it would matter.

Even if he wanted to fall and break, he can't move – hasn't since he found Jason hours ago. He's on his knees in front of the sofa, head resting on the cushions, and anyone would think he was praying. He's not. He's trying to imagine his life without his best friend.

_Why didn't you call me? What was so bad that you didn't...couldn't...wouldn't...?_

Because it's what they do. Whenever it gets to be too bad or too much. They don't even have to talk; the last time Roy just sat on the open line all night listening to Jason breathe. It was enough just knowing they weren't alone.

"Roy?"

The _squeal_ of the door hinges lances painfully through Roy's brain, a shock after the blanket of silence he's been wrapped in. His eyes flick to Jason's face, wondering if his friend is just as annoyed that even in death he can't find peace.

"Roy, are you here?"

Tentative footsteps make their way down the hall, and Roy thinks he should warn her, but that would involve talking, which would involve words, and what kind of words are there for something like this? There's a sharp _gasp_ , and a broken "X'Hal," and it's a moot point because Kori has already seen.

"Jason?"

Roy knows Kori is staring at him, the heat of her body as intense as the weight of her gaze. His expression crumbles as he shakes his head, the final thread of his resolve snapping. This was the last chance for it to be a lie or a joke or even a nightmare, but if she can see it, too – if her voice sounds like _that...._ Roy's shoulders shake as a sob erupts from his throat.

"What happened?" Kori murmurs brokenly as she collapses to her knees beside Roy. "Who did this? Why did this happen?" Her skin flares golden with her rising temper, but even the heat of the sun can't penetrate the ice that's squeezing Roy's heart.

"He did. He...." _Killed himself. Pulled the trigger. Ended it. Left us._ Roy chokes, because even if Jason's dead, those are words he cannot speak. If Jason can't make it, could do _this_ , what hope does someone like Roy have?

Kori's scream ricochets through the room, all anguish and anger and sorrow and disbelief. Her body is a flame, and Roy wonders if they're all about to burn. He wouldn't mind; he wouldn't have to wake up tomorrow without his best friend.

But the fire ebbs, and suddenly tomorrow is again a possibility, and Roy shatters against Kori.

Once they start, the tears flow for what feels like hours, ripping denial and recriminations from Roy's mouth on the force of their current. Kori doesn't hold him, but she doesn't push him away. She doesn't move at all.

"Can you take him to the island?" Roy finally asks, his voice raw and hoarse. _Take him away from here? Away from everything? Away from whatever took him away from us?_ Jason would like it there. It was as close to a real home as any of them had.

"What about his family?" The words _crackle_ with the embers of Kori's rage.

It's a good question. Not where they were when Jason needed them; that's not even worth considering. There'd always be excuses. But even if they probably don't care, they still need to be told.

"Later," Roy whispers. "Just get him out of here. Take him home." He feels Kori shift as if to stand and somehow manages not to crash to the floor as she leans back to study him.

"What about you?" Her green eyes might be hard to read for everyone else, but Roy can see the questions in the them. _Will you be okay? Will I see you again? Will I have to bury you, too?_

"I'll be there soon," he replies, not knowing yet if it's a lie. "I just need...." _For this not to be real. For this not to be happening. For you to leave me alone long enough to make it go away._ When Kori doesn't leave, he knows she sees it, and he can't help his rising shame. He flinches when he feels her arms around him, when his head is pulled against her chest and her fingers are carding through his hair. "Kori?" he asks brokenly.

"One of us is already gone," she says softly, trembling as she speaks, body betraying her like her voice. "If we are to leave, it will be together."

They stay until the sun comes up the next day, and it's every bit as painful as they knew it would be.


	3. Chapter 3

"Go away."

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"Go away!" Dick mumbles with more force, burying his head in his pillow.

If anything, the _rapping_ grows louder, more insistent.

The sky outside is dark, as it was when Dick collapsed into bed, and it provides no indication of how long he's been asleep...or, more likely, hasn't.

_Bang bang bang bang bang!_

Again the pounding intensifies, not letting up as it becomes a driving spike in his addled brain. He can tell that short of leaving the apartment there's no way to escape it, which would necessitate getting out of bed anyway. _S_ o, step by weary step, he drags his tired, aching body out from under the downy-soft warmth of the comforter, through the living room with its faux-wood floors frigid against his bare feet, and to the door, wincing as another _bang_ rattles his teeth just as his hand settles on the knob.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, letting it out in short _puffs_ as he tries to quash his growing annoyance. When he finally deems it unlikely he'll harm anyone, he yanks open the door – to find one of the absolute last people in the world he expected to see on the other side.

"Roy?" Dick croaks, voice sleep-rough and face scrunching as he blinks against the painfully harsh light of the hallway. "What are you...?"

A sharp gesture from the archer cuts off the question, and Dick watches as emotions fly chaotically across the man's face -- eyes tightening and going wide, nostrils flaring, mouth alternately pressing into a thin line and gaping open wordlessly, and a thousand other micro-expressions that scream hurt and pain and something so very, very _wrong_.

Dick sees them all, and his stomach tightens in dread as the seconds tick by in silence.

"Jason's dead."

The declaration erupts from Roy's throat on a wave of bile, burning, searing, _choking_ him until he gags on the words, the force of it almost sending him to his knees. He grips the door frame with a clawed hand, struggling to remain upright on shaking legs as he clumsily wipes saliva from his lips with his sleeve and tries to ignore his roiling stomach.

And through reddened eyes, he watches as Dick does...nothing.

The anger overtakes him without warning, and in it he finds the energy to yell, his spittle flying. "Do you hear me?! Do you fucking hear me?! Jason's dead! He's fucking _dead_!" _He's dead and he's gone and he's never coming back! Fucking do something! Fucking give a shit!_ And Roy has to squeeze his eyes shut and clamp a hand over his mouth, because if he starts crying now he'll never make it through this.

"How?"

Fortunately, Dick has always been able to stoke Roy's ire effortlessly. _"How?"_ the archer mocks silently, eyes wide in disbelief. Not, "Oh god," or "you're wrong," or even a fucking tear. Just "how." It's the perfect non-reaction reaction from the perfect little soldier – Batman's perfect little tool, so used to blood and bodies that even a death in the family can't shake the emotionless automaton masquerading as a man. It feels like the validation of every suspicion they've ever had about how little the Bats cared about Jason, and it makes Roy's blood boil.

"Head shot." Somehow the archer keeps his voice even, purposely waiting a beat before tacking on, "Suicide."

Dick doesn't look at him, but his Adam's apple bobs. It's a tiny, barely-there fissure, and Roy has the sudden urge to shove an arrow in it and blow it apart. To shatter Dick like Jason's death has shattered him.

"When?" Again the word is emotionless, blank.

"Four weeks ago." _A whole fucking month, and you didn't fucking notice._

It had been one week spent pleading with Kori by day and exhausting the list of every magician, root worker, and mystical shaman he could think of in secret under the cover of night.

Another week before he finally gave up and let Kori...let Starfire...let her....

Roy gags again as the phantom taste of ash clogs his nose and throat – as the flames roar in his head with the power of an enraged, broken, grieving sun, licking greedily, hungrily, without care at the empty husk of the man within their midst. Reducing the entirety of what he was – best friend, partner, protector, avenger, and so much more that words could never describe – to nothing. A memory coated in the acrid scent of burning flesh and forever imprinted on his mind.

Four weeks.

How long it had taken Kori to finally let him off the island. Alone.

Roy's so lost in his own head, in his rising shame at his own weakness and failings, that he almost misses it – the way Dick's skin pales and his carefully composed poise falters ever so slightly.

"When?" he asks again, breathlessly, voice rising as his gaze snaps to Roy's.

"Four. Weeks." The archer says the words slowly, studying Dick with rapt intensity. And no, he's definitely _not_ imaging the way the raven-haired man's face goes slack in shock – the silent, wordless _moan_ that escapes his parted lips.

And Roy feels the beginnings of something ugly and dark churn within his gut.

"What did you do?" he asks, voice low and predatory as he stalks towards Dick, his hands suddenly aching for the bow he left behind in ~~Jason's~~ his safe house; because whatever he thought about The Bats, this was _supposed_ to be a peaceful visit. But as Dick's eyes find his own, Roy _knows_. "What. Did you. Do?" he snarls, his face now mere inches from Dick's.

Head turning instinctively to escape the force of Roy's anger, Dick throws his hands up and stutters, "N...Nothing! I swear! I just...I...I told him I did it – that I killed The Joker!"

It's an admission that Roy doesn't see coming – not in a million years – and it sends him rocking back on his heels as he feels his breath escape in a _whoosh_ from his lungs. "You _what_?" he asks, the words high-pitched and reedy.

The remorse that tugs at Dick's face is his first deep, tangible emotion of the conversation. "I killed The Joker. Bruce brought him back," he whispers, eyes bright and voice watery.

And _wrong._

"No," the archer replies, shaking his head. "No!" Lips curling, teeth on display as he re-invades Dick's personal space, breath hot against the man's face, he shouts, "That's what he wanted! That's _all_ he wanted! He wouldn't have...! Not for _that!_ That's not all you said! What else did you say?!"

Eyes screwed closed, Dick waits for the barrage of words to stop ringing in his ears before he replies. "I told him I regretted it."

The punch takes both Roy and Dick by surprise, the fist connecting with the raven-haired man's face as if with a mind of its own. It snaps his head around, body following, twisting in a mockery of the acrobat's trademark gracefulness before it drops to the ground with a hollow, not-quite-satisfying _thud._

And then Roy is on the other man, several more blows landing against Dick's face before his brain catches up with the actions of his body. Finally, breathing hard, taking pleasure in the blood clinging to his knuckles and the puffy, mottled, broken skin beneath him, Roy leans in, his hand against the other man's throat, and growls, "What. Else?"

For a long moment, Dick says nothing, Roy watching as he tries to rebuild his mask of stone and indifference out of the layers of bruises rising on his flesh. And it's with sick glee that the archer presses down on the fragile cartilage, a cold smile tugging at his lips. "Uh uh uh, Dickie," he taunts as the other man's fingers scrabble at his hand, "I asked you a question."

Dick bucks under the archer's hold, trying to throw him off, and part of Roy wants Dick not to speak, to remain mute -- to _push_ him and see that Roy is serious. Instead he gasps out, "He wasn't worth it. I...I told him he wasn't worth it."

The silence is so complete not even a Bat could hide in it.

It feels like hours before the vice around Roy's chest loosens enough that he can finally find his voice, and even then he can barely talk. "You said...?" he _wheezes,_ feeling light-headed and ill. Because no, there's absolutely no way Dick would say _that_ to Jason. He might be careless and blasé and self-centered and a dozen other things that make Roy want to shoot him square in his stupid, ridiculously pretty face with one of Ollie's equally ridiculous boxing glove arrows, but he still wouldn't....

But the other man doesn't deny it – doesn't even move, as if the weight of his confession is crushing him like it's crushing Roy.

_Oh, god, Jaybird. Oh, god._

And with sudden, terrifying clarity, Roy knows what it means to see _green_.

Shoving off of Dick roughly and rising to his feet, in one smooth, fluid, elegant motion that would have made Jason weep tears of pride, the archer reaches behind himself, grabs the gun tucked into the small of his back at his waist, extends his arm, and aims the .45 at Dick's head.

And between one second and the next, it's like time stops. As if even god sits surprised and stunned and ignorant of what transpires next – never expecting it would have come to this.

Just like Dick, sprawled on the floor, face white, body frozen.

Like Roy, hand steady, unwavering.

"You'd let me do it, wouldn't you?" Ice-cold fury clings jaggedly to each word Roy speaks.

Again Dick doesn't say anything, but still he's not begging or protesting or trying to escape. The are even beads of moisture at the corners of his eyes that _might_ be tears, and _might_ just _possibly_ signify recognition and understanding and even regret for what he's done. And that's all the answer the archer needs.

Roy's face contorts, his expression growing uglier, more frightening, as the seconds pass.

The sharp _clatter_ of the gun hitting the ground has Dick flinging himself backwards in panic, his breath heaving out through his gaping mouth. Anxious and more than a little scared, his gaze traces a path between the fallen weapon and the carefully blank, non-expression that finally settles across Roy's features. Only the archer's eyes betray him, alive and practically glowing with something viciously horrible.

"That's the one he used," Roy says, nudging the weapon towards Dick's hand with the toe of his boot. "To kill himself." And even though the words again send fire tearing up his throat and burning at his eyes, he can't help the satisfied twist of his lips at Dick's full-body flinch. "There's one bullet in the chamber. I'm sure you can figure out what to do with it. Preferably _after_ you tell everyone what you did."

It takes a minute for the meaning to register, but when it does, Dick's chest heaves sharply as if he's about vomit, a hand instinctively flying up to cover his mouth. "You can't be serious," he protests hoarsely. "It's not like I knew he'd...!" But the words fade away because he can see that Roy _is._ That he definitely means for Dick to.... _Put the gun to my head. Pull the trigger. Blow my brains out. Cease to exist. Die. Like Jason._ Hysterical laughter bubbles up from the depths of Dick's belly and escapes from his lips as he realizes there's no forgiveness or understanding or room for second chances in Roy's eyes.

Not like Jason had a second chance.

 _Before I...._ Dick's gaze again drops to the gun, and he swallows thickly around the lump in his throat as the silver gleams as if alive with the last vestiges of Jason's fear and emptiness and hurt and rage – so palpable it's like Roy's hand is back around his throat and squeezing without remorse.

But when Dick finally looks back up, Roy is gone – leaving him behind and alone with Jason's ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudos-ed to turn this one-shot into something larger. You really upped the bar with all the feedback, so I hope you liked this chapter :)


	4. Chapter 4

_Wall. Door. Table. Gun._

Dick flinches, his head jerking painfully. Digging his nails into his palms, letting the pain disrupt his thoughts, he forces himself to start over again.

_Wall. Door. Table. Picture. Sofa._

He takes a breath; it's still painful. His head is still spinning.

_Wooden floor under my feet. Worn t-shirt against my chest. Not Jason. You can't touch Jason. He's dead._

Dick sobs, mouth falling open in a silent scream. His hands go to his hair, yanking at it as he fights for control against his own thoughts.

_Wooden floor under my feet. Worn t-shirt against my chest. Track pants covering my legs. Strands of hair under my hands._

His gasping is getting worse, not better. He thinks he's about to be sick. Thinking it makes it so, and he gags as bile flares up his throat. Clumsily rolling over onto his stomach, he braces his body on his forearms as his head rests atop clenched fists. There's nothing in his stomach, but he still coughs himself raw, the effort leaving him sweaty, shaking, and nauseous.

_Sound of cars_ , he thinks desperately.  _Ticking of the clock. Jason's voice._

"Oh, god," Dick _moans,_ clasping his hands over his ears as he screws his eyes shut. He can do this. He can _do_ this.

_Gun oil._ His chest heaves.  _Cordite._ Tears fall.

_Blood._ His mouth is awash with it where he's bitten through his cheek.  _There must have been blood. So much blood._

"Oh, god, Jay." The words are ragged, barely recognizable.

Dick's arms give out and his face hits the floor. He doesn't feel it. Behind closed eyes, Jason is staring at him, shaking his head. It's...there's.... Dick gags again, curling himself into a ball, knees held tightly to his chest. ' _I'm sorry_ ,' he shouts desperately. _'I'm sorry! Come back! Please, come back!'_

Jason offers him a small smile tinged with regret. _'I know. I can't. Not this time, Big Bird.'_

Then he's gone.

And Dick gives in to the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

The noise is like a dagger to Dick's brain.

"Richard." Damian says the name with uncharacteristic softness, his hand prodding lightly at his brother's shoulder, the man lying in an unwashed, trembling heap on the floor.

It splits Dick's skull, but he can't make it go away.

"Richard." The teen tries again, worry creeping in at the whimper that crawls out of his brother's throat.

Dick should be covering his ears, but he's forgotten how to move his hands.

"Richard." The tenor of the word changes, drops lower, becomes steel-edged.

Dick's whole body is numb.

"Nightwing! Report!" Damian's tone is field-tested and battle-hardened; he's cowed assassins with less.

Dick doesn't know where he is. Can't recall how he got there. Doesn't know what's happening.

Still his body obeys.

His eyes fly open, helpless against the command. Everything feels wrong. _He_ feels wrong. But the sense of dissonance is powerless against a lifetime of training – indoctrination.

Like a wild thing, his gaze flits across his surroundings. It's all hazy. He struggles to understand what he's seeing. A flash of silver, almost blinding in the washed-out darkness of the room, has him scuttling away like a terrified crab until his back slams against the wall and stops him cold.

A pained _oof_ escapes his lips, and in the corner of his mind he realizes they're cracked, his throat acid scorched, tongue thick and heavy. _What...?_

Damian's eyebrow lifts minutely. He tries to ignore the uneasy feeling that coils in his gut as his eyes track his brother's movements, cataloging all the wrong he sees. "Good, you're awake."

Again the ice pick strikes. Dick cringes, hands scrabbling weakly to squeeze at his head, tangling in his hair, tugging at the dark, greasy locks. _What...?_

"What happened?" Damian keeps his voice gentle and light; he's seen horses less spooked.

Dick flinches against the accusation he hears tangled in the question. His pulse quickens, he feels his heart hammer against his chest, knows his lungs are heaving as his breathing turns erratic. _I don't.... I can't...._

"And why do you have Todd's gun?"

Like a cascade of black earth, reality comes crashing down. It buries him under a torrent of guilt, displacing the numbness so fast it rips away the rest of his air and leaves him choking on the void.

_"Head shot."_

_Gun oil. Cordite. Blood._

_So much blood._

_There must have been so much blood._

His mouth gapes open with a cry that would have been a shriek if only there'd been anything left to give it voice. Hands pull at him, words assault him, but the only thing he truly sees in the darkness is red. A copper-scented sea of it. He's drowning in it.

"Richard John Grayson!" Damian barks, desperately slapping down his brother's hands as Dick claws at his own throat, eyes gone wide in terror.

The sharp crack of flesh on flesh, the bright sting that flames under his cheek has Dick sobbing in relief as it chases away the nightmare and gives him blessed seconds to corral his chaotic thoughts. _It's not real. It's not. It was never real._

His eyes open slowly, blinking away blurry lines and fuzzy edges. He hisses at the pain that flares in his neck as he twists his head too quickly. _It's not real. It's not real._

The mantra plays in his mind as a figure swims into focus. Male. Raven haired. Crouching gargoyle-like before him. Arms crossed, hands hanging over his knees. A glint of silver.

_It's not real. It was a nightmare._

"Jason." The name escapes in a breath of relief so great he thinks he could float away as the weight leaves him. "Jason." Lurching forward, ignoring how the world spins and his vision fogs, he paws at his brother in some bastardized version of a hug. "Jason."

"Richard...?" The sweat on Damian's skin turns chilling, and he can't quite suppress the shiver that races through his body.

Dick steamrolls over his little brother; he can't hold the words in. "I knew you weren't dead. I knew he lied. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I'm sorry." He babbles on almost incoherently, feels Jason tense and clings more tightly.

_It was a nightmare._

"What the hell?" Damian whispers. He slips his hands into the space between the two of them and shoves just enough to get the older man away.

Dick feels himself flying backwards, first spine and then head impacting brick with a stomach-churning _thwack_. The crimson red becomes dazzling white as his knees hit the floor with a jolt that rocks his whole body, cracks his teeth together, and sends him tumbling back to the ground like a rag doll.

He squints against the light, doesn't understand what's happened until Jason's face distorts and shimmers and morphs.

"What do you mean Todd is dead?" Damian does his best to keep his voice level as his brain races with possibilities.

Dick curls into himself as he hears the barely-contained rage. But even in its anger, the voice could never be Jason's. The hair, cut too close and too styled, could never be Jason's. Even dressed as Robin, Damian could never be Jason.

And too late he realizes his mistake.

Their eyes meet, and Dick's sure his betray him, because even white-out lenses can't hide the contempt he sees etched across his little brother's face.

"What. Happened. To Jason?" Damian is stone still. Inside, his adrenaline is surging.

 _'What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What did you do?'_ Roy's voice.

The accusation skips like a broken record through Dick's equally broken thoughts. "He.... I.... "

The teen shifts, slinking closer. "What happened? What did Todd do?"

_'What did_ you _do?'_

Dick flinches as the shadows seem to gather at Damian's back – as he's roughly dragged upright and the jagged cut of the words tears into his heart.

_'What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What did you do?'_

His stomach roils, and his body practically folds itself in half against the triple assault of bile, nausea, and vitriol. Keening pathetically, he screws his eyes shut against the barrage...

"Richard....?"

'... _What did you do?'_

...and passes out in Damian's arms.


	6. Chapter 6

' _I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Come back! Please, come back!'_

"...Said Todd was dead...."

_'I know. I can't. Not this time, Big Bird.'_

_'Jason!'_

_'You gotta come to me, Big Bird.'_

_'Jason, I....'_ Dick gasps as the bright light invades his eyes, ripping him away from his little brother.  _'Jason! No!'_

"...Found him lying on the floor...."

_'Not this time.'_ Jason turns away, a small, sad smile on his lips.

Dick practically screams his name. _'Jason! Come home, Little Wing! Please!'_

"...Tell what's going on...."

Something sharp pierces Dick's skin. _'Please don't leave!'_

"...Mild sedative to lower his heart rate...."

The raven-haired man whimpers as he struggles to keep his brother in focus. "L'l wi...."

"Master Dick, calm yourself, please. Your vitals are erratic; I'm afraid I'll have to fully sedate you if you don't calm down." The panicked, jack-rabbit beep of the heart monitor punctuates Alfred's words.

"No, don'...," Dick slurs, his hand spasming as it reaches out for nothing. "Jas'n...."

"Master Jason isn't here." The butler's hand grips the younger man's tightly. His tone suggests he hasn't decided whether he should be distressed at the absence yet – is merely resigned.

"I...know...." The beeping slows as the breath leaves Dick's lungs in one mournful _sigh_ , his body seeming to sink into the thin mattress with the loss. "'E's dead." The hand in his is too small, too bony, too frail, too not-Jason. He feels its partner against his forehead, drifting up to card through his matted, greasy hair.

"What do you mean, 'dead?'"

A new voice, deeper, gruffer, like gravel grinding against the pavement. The face that blocks the light above the exam table is no less intimidating with the fuzzy edges and black spots that mar Dick's vision. The tempo of the heart monitor quickens.

"Killed 'imself. Roy said 'e...." Dick breaks off with a sob. "He shot...." A gasp for breath. "Sho' 'imself." The final words emerge as a whimper that dissolves into tears.

Alfred is the first to regain the ability to speak.

"My word," he utters quietly, breathlessly, the hand not gripping Dick's going to cover his own mouth. "You can't be...."

"'Roy said?'" The "Batman voice" drops several octaves, dripping with disdain as it cuts the butler's protest short.

The tone goes over Dick's head, the sedative taking hold and giving his words a sing-songy quality that contrasts starkly with his watery, bloodshot eyes. "Said Jay's gone. Left the gun so I could make it right. Said 's'my fault he's gone, but I c'n make it okay. Jus' need th' gun and then I c'n see Jay again. He's waiting...said I c'n follow 'im. Jus' need th' gun. Please...just need th' gun."

Dick's practically begging, but there's a far-away, almost dreamy quality in his gaze, as if this is his one chance at a happily ever after.

Damian's jaw drops, then just as quickly snaps shut as he swallows bile. "What the fuck?" he rasps out.

"Oh, my lord." Alfred goes white and still.

Bruce's eyes narrow.

"Shouldn' swear, Li'l D," Dick slurs, a small smile hooking up the corners of his lips. "Jas'n alway'swears. Always says bad thin's. Does bad thin's. But I said bad thin's, too." Eyes turning heavy-lidded, a furrow appears on his brow. "Said...was glad didn't kill...for 'im. Said...wasn'...worth it."

Armored gloves creak as Bruce's hands ball into fists. "Jason wanted you to kill for him?" he asks sharply.

Dick just looks at him, the furrow deepening with his confusion, dragging the ends of his mouth back down, as he shakes his head blearily. "Jok'r.... Tol' him I kill'd Jok'r. Glad you brough' 'im back. No' worth m'soul." There's a beat, and then his expression crumbles. "Hurt 'im. Hurt 'im really bad. Didn' know. Roy said...my fault. Need th' gun b'cause i's my fault."

The shuriken that appears in Damian's hand between one blink of an eye and the next flashes violently under the cave's harsh florescent lighting. "Harper's dead," he spits, already calculating the number of ways he can wring every last agonized scream from the man's throat as he bleeds out.

Bruce ignores the comment, focuses squarely on Dick. The muscles of his jaw bulge. "How did Roy know Jason was dead? Did he see him?"

Through the sluggish haze of sleep deprivation and drugs, Dick picks apart the question with single-minded intensity, grasping at slippery, formless thoughts, something in the tone – in Bruce's face – telling him this is _important._ "Don' know. Di'n' say." He says the words carefully, searching for their hidden meaning.

"What _did_ he say?" is the harsh, jagged reply as Bruce shoves his head down next to Dick's, his expression an odd, conflicting swirl of ire, stoicism, and hopefulness.

The younger man blinks owlishly, his eyes meeting Bruce's for but a second before slipping away as he tries to put his the pieces together. "Did...." He licks his lips, tongue feeling too big for his mouth. "Di' Roy lie? Is Jay alive? Did 'e lie?"

The increased tempo of the heart monitor matches the beseeching rise in Dick's tone. "Di' Roy lie?" he asks again, struggling like a newborn to roll over on his side as he reaches for Bruce with uncoordinated hands. "Jay'salive? Roy lied? 'E lied! Jay wouldn' do that! He wouldn'!"

Bruce sidesteps, likewise ignoring the desperation clinging to his words.

"Br'ce, Jay's alive, right? Tell me Jay's alive! Please?" Dick begs, hands clutching at air.

"Watch him," Bruce snarls, pinning the younger man in place with his glare, mouth thinning into a bloodless line as Dick goes almost as pale as the bleached out sheets on the gurney.

"Bruce?" Dick whimpers, shrinking back into himself.

Alfred's gaze flicks between the two men, his expression as uncertain as the purpose of the hand he lays on Dick's shoulder. "Master Bruce, what do you intend to do?"

Flipping up out of his seat, Damian fixes his father with a look of reproach. "Tt. Todd was always weak. If he broke that easily, he deserves...."

"Enough!" Bruce's fist comes crashing towards a tray of medical tools, halting mere centimeters before it strikes and sends the metal scattering across the stone floor.

Silence descends, heavy and oppressive. For several seconds the cave is a tomb. Only the screech of bats betrays the presence of life.

"Watch him," Bruce finally says again, addressing the butler, turning his back on Dick as he strides away with echoing steps that are not quite even.

Damian scrambles to follow. "Father, what...?"

"Stay."

The boy gawks at the clipped command, trying to hide his hurt behind surprise.

Bruce doesn't see it. He's already gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce doesn't return. At least not while Dick's conscious.

Alfred visits. Dick knows by the food that's left at his bedside while he's sleeping. Sometimes it's even warm when he awakens.

It's Damian who eventually has to tell him – has to confirm what Dick knew, then had convinced himself was a lie. And now must again accept.

Jason's dead.

There's nothing tangible they can bring him; Jason's safe house, the one where it happened, has been reduced to ash. According to Roy, just like Jas....

Dick's breath tangles painfully on the thought. He almost chokes on it. Again. Despite the sedatives, he can still think. It's fine, he doesn't deserve that mercy.

At some point, he realizes he doesn't know how long it's been, and that tells him it's been long enough. Too long.

There will be no resurrection. And, obviously, no forgiveness.

It's fine. He did this.

With all his training, his shaking limbs, the drugs, and a head full of cacophonous voices spewing epithets – most of which sound like this own in various states of rage, despair, and grief – were never enough to really stop him. It's no worse than Scarecrow's fear toxin, only all the nightmares wear his face and have hands dripping with his brother's blood.

It's easy to find the gun. He doesn't let himself think too hard about it. It should be easy. Why wouldn't it be?

Damian leaves for school and, later, patrol.

Alfred comes and goes only when he's sleeping (or feigning it).

Bruce doesn't come at all.

No one's there when he wakes up. No one sees him follow Jason out of the cave. There's no one but Jason to see him disappear into the night.

And he knows there will be no one to care when he doesn't come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it -- the end. Thank you to everyone who came along for this story and read, commented, or kudos-ed. You turned a tiny one-shot into a full-fledged arc. This was definitely one of the hardest stories I've written, but your responses kept me going. It's been great hearing from all of you, and I hope you'll continue to follow my work. Take care and stay safe :)


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